


It's Only Love

by Mademoiselle_Kitty



Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 22:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10626588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mademoiselle_Kitty/pseuds/Mademoiselle_Kitty
Summary: John and Paul are skiving off. Nothing special about that, until what seems like just another day takes an unexpected turn.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Revised and re-uploaded after a short break from the fandom.
> 
> Originally published on 13 November 2016 under my old username Macca4Ever (Ive_Just_Seen_A_Face).
> 
> Kudos and comments keep my muse alive <3

September 1959

 

He stares out into the distance, biding his time whilst random, disjointed chords fill the silence. It doesn’t bother Paul anymore; he’s used to it by now. John often gets like this: caught up in some train of thought he can’t follow. Or so John thinks, anyway. You know, because he’s nearly nineteen and Paul barely seventeen, so for some reason that apparently means Paul can’t understand the depths of John’s contemplations and thus, he’s rarely made privy to them.

It’s not something he enjoys: being underestimated. If only John could see into his mind sometimes, he’d think twice about considering him to be just a kid who couldn’t possibly understand. As it is, that’s the way John often feels so Paul has no choice but to either accept that or tell his best friend to go to hell. Somehow, the latter doesn't sound very appealing to Paul.

So, he quietly takes it in his stride, because he cares too much for John to make it an issue or let it come between them. Besides, it’s not always like that. Sometimes, John opens up to him, lets him look deep into his soul where the real John resides. Not the cynical Ted most people think he is, but the gentle, caring John who really just wants people to stop leaving him. Although of course, being a Scouser, a Northern Man, he’d sooner kill himself than to admit that to anyone other than those he truly trusts.

A loud, dissonant chord meets a deep, frustrated sigh and then the sound of guitars ebbs away. It doesn’t even startle Paul anymore. John just does that, and you have to know how to deal with it. He acts like he never even noticed it and remains quiet, listening to the sounds of the park around them which now replace John’s chaotic strums.

Normally, hanging out at Calderstones Park means having to endure a cacophony of squealing toddlers, gossiping housewives, and rumbustious teenyboppers, but not today. Skiving off school equals risking yet another admonition and a row at home but it also means the vast park is pretty much theirs and now that John has stopped playing, Paul finds himself mesmerised by a different kind of music: the one produced by nature itself. Leaves, rustling in the wind that’s been picking up lately, threatening to unleash autumn early and harshly this year. Well, nothing anyone can do to prevent that, Paul reckons as he closes his eyes and feels a warm gust of wind brushing his cheeks, tugging at his hair which is too well-greased to be blown out of shape that easily.

He stays like that for a bit, face turned to the sun, shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows and the top two buttons undone whilst his loosened school tie gently moves whichever way the wind blows it; the green and navy stripes a subtle reminder of where he's actually supposed to be at that exact moment. But who in their right mind would choose German, a maths test, and two hours of PE over this? Paul feels utterly free, sat there barefoot on the grass, breathing in the scents of the Indian summer whilst birds of different shapes and sizes are offering intermittent commentaries.

Even without seeing them, Paul knows that one’s a jackdaw, and the one further away, chirping so melodically, is a blackbird. There are loads of sparrows arguing, maybe over the magpies that appeared recently. It’s been awhile since Paul saw any of those, but there’s a couple of them now. If he were to listen more closely, he’d be able to pick out more and imagine the conversations the feathered neighbours might be having, which is always good for a laugh, but he can’t because John breaks the spell.

“It’s fucked up, isn’t it?”

Paul doesn’t respond. It wasn’t a question, he knows that now, even though it might sound like that to anyone else. John isn’t even talking to him, really. Not yet, anyway. It’s just those thoughts he’s been caught up in, refusing to stay inside his head any longer. Perhaps, Paul wonders, this will be one of those few times John will let him in on whatever's on his mind today. Only time will tell.

“Who decides what’s right and wrong anyway?”

Next to him, John has discarded his guitar and has now resorted to torturing the grass instead. He’s ripping out handfuls of it, only to toss most of it aside, scattering half of it across his feet which are bare just like Paul’s, granting only a few blades the questionable honour of meticulously being torn to shreds. The deed adds a new smell to the already rich air, the freshness of it cutting right through the muskiness of the warm September afternoon, and Paul decides to cast a sideways glance at John, just in case he actually wants to talk.

“It’s just not right, is all I’m saying.”

“What isn’t, Johnny?” Somehow, Paul feels it’s what John expects him to ask so he complies, making sure to keep his voice casual even though he’s dying to know what John’s thinking about this time.

John studies a fallen leaf for a few moments, rolling the stem between his fingers to make it twirl until it, too, befalls the same fate as the unfortunate grass. “People trying to tell other people how to live their lives.”

“Ah. Yeah, drag, that.” Deep down, Paul feels a pinch of disappointment. He half hoped it’d be something different, something he hasn't heard before. John has always been an anarchist, never liked to play by the rules. So this revelation isn’t exactly earth-shattering. Probably just the result of another barney with his aunt, Paul reckons. He faces the wind and the sun again, expecting the conversation to be over.

Only it isn’t.

Before Paul can settle back into his former state of feigned disinterest, John goes off on a tangent about all the ways society tries to fit everyone into the same mould, leaving far too little space for the individual to live the life he or she wants to live, making people into miserable sods whose only purpose is to do exactly the same crap their parents did before them.

Much of it, Paul has heard before. He’s a bit of an activist, John is. Wouldn’t make a bad politician if he wasn’t so fucking bloody-minded. John always deemed himself different, misunderstood, and a little more special than everyone else. He isn’t shy about letting people know that, either. It usually comes down to this, but then he takes a sudden swerve from his usual commentary and rather than continue talking too loudly, his voice drops to nearly a whisper when he unexpectedly drops his armour and confesses what’s really bothering him.

“Who are they to tell people who they’re supposed to love?”

The sudden change of subject forces Paul to do a double-take, just to make sure he heard it right. In the two years he’s known John, Paul can count the times he’s mentioned love on his fingers. They sing about it all the time, obviously, but that’s just songs. This isn’t. This is coming from somewhere else, and it’s not John’s wont to talk about those things. You know, feelings. All at once, Paul finds it nearly impossible to remain composed, and he finds himself searching for a suitable reply. Between the hammering of his heart and his inexperience at discussing something like that with John - or anyone for that matter, he struggles to come up with one.

“I mean, it’s all love, isn’t it,” John continues, oblivious to how relieved Paul is not to have to say anything just yet. “There shouldn’t be laws saying if you love that person, we’ll lock you up. That’s just rubbish.”

It dawns on Paul now, but it still confuses him. Why would John of all people be bothered about that? He’s got a new girlfriend who indulges his every whim and if there’s any truth to the stories, they’re at it like rabbits half the time. So why would John be upset about something that doesn’t even concern him?

Paul finds himself looking at John now, eyebrows knitted together in utter bemusement. John hasn’t figured him out, has he? That’s impossible, he’s buried those desires underneath a metric tonne of banter years ago and kept piling rubbish on top of it until even Paul sometimes believes they’re not there anymore even though he bloody well knows that's bollocks. Has John found out somehow, is that why he brings this up?

Unable to bite back the words that are fighting to come out, Paul hears himself asking that burning question. He notices the tension in his voice, struggles to even it out, and fails at it. “What are you trying to say, Johnny?”

Eyes, searching for some truth, bore into his own. He's still reeling from John's words and feels naked now that the mask he always wears has been knocked out of place. Paul knows his deepest secrets are out in the open, senses that John is seeing right through the bullshit, and averts his gaze. He half expects to be shouted at, ridiculed, maybe even beaten up. He knows all too well how John can make anyone feel two foot small with a handful of well-chosen, blistering words, is well aware of how violent he can get, too.

Paul braces himself, not sure what will come next, but deeply convinced it’ll be painful. What he doesn’t expect, is for John’s hand, which was ripping up that innocent little leaf just moments earlier, to inch towards his own until their fingers touch. He wasn’t expecting to see John’s Adam's apple bobbing frantically as he swallows hard before tentatively proceeding until at long last, they’re actually holding hands, fingers entwined and all.

“Is that alright?”

The low sound of John’s voice sends a jolt of electricity through Paul, and his head shoots up. He wasn’t even aware that he was staring at their hands, and he feels exactly the same amount of embarrassment as that time his mum found that naughty drawing in the pocket of his school uniform. Heat engulfs his face, colouring his cheeks and ears scarlet. Paul doesn’t need a mirror to know; he can feel it happening and he hates it. Avoiding John’s eyes, he nods nearly imperceptibly. It’s more than alright; it’s what he’s been dreaming about for a long time, but he still doesn’t understand why John is doing this.

“Macca, look at me.”

Reluctantly, Paul complies, afraid of what he might see. He’s already given away too much, needs desperately to hang onto his dignity insofar as he has any left at all. It’s now his turn to swallow two, three times, never managing to get rid of the lump in his throat. He knows that the way he’s chewing his bottom lip tells John exactly how much this sudden turn of events affects him and yet, he can’t seem to bring himself to stop doing it. Hell, it’s taking all of his willpower to not start crying, and there’s only so much anyone can do at once anyway so Paul just keeps biting that piece of flesh until he thinks he can taste blood.

“It’s only me,” John mutters, and it’s something in the way he says it that makes Paul finally focus.

Rather than stare past John, he manages to meet his gaze. What he sees isn’t the hard, cold rejection John can conjure up at will. In fact, there’s something new in the eyes that are warm and inviting. Buried deep inside lies something Paul hasn’t seen before. It’s as if he’s been granted access to a hidden chamber inside John’s mind, tucked away so thoroughly, Paul didn’t even know it existed. There’s something familiar in there, an emotion he recognises instantly and before he can stop it, Paul finds himself smiling. After a long beat, John mirrors the expression, his face lighting up like a beacon.

He still doesn’t get it, keeps wondering how, and why, and how long, and whatever else he’d like to know, but at the same time, he understands perfectly. Besides, the moment John's lips touch his, none of that even matters anymore anyway...


End file.
